


Visiting Limbo

by Soulburnt



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Post-BtVS, Psychological Torture, dirty song lyrics, post-AtS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26958397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulburnt/pseuds/Soulburnt
Summary: Too good for hell, but not welcome in heaven unless he renounces his demon, the Powers That Be don't have a place for Spike after everyone dies at the end of 'Not Fade Away.'  So they create a realm for him and others like him.  Only... it's actually just him alone.Meanwhile, Buffy quits slaying after she gets word of what happened in Los Angeles and embraces the normal life.  Dawn does just the opposite and starts to explore her dormant Key powers.  She plays it safe, astrally projecting just her spirit into other dimensions while she learns.  As she grows stronger, she guides herself easily to what she wants to see or experience, like a world with beautiful gardens or diamonds raining from alien skies.One day she sends her spirit out in search of love... and finds Spike alone in his realm, where time moves at a different pace.  The two recapture their friendship, and Dawn sends her spirit to visit his regularly.  She doesn't think her sister really cared about Spike, so she never bothers telling her.  Then Buffy learns what Dawn has been doing -- and who she's been seeing.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. Different Trajectories

May 2004

***

“Oh, balls.” This was the second time Spike’s molecules had pulled together after turning to dust, and it bloody hurt.

He looked around, hearing the murmur of voices, but saw… nothing. Well, there was a smooth, greyish floor of some hard material, and some foggy substance at what seemed to be a distance, but… nothing, really.

Spike looked down. For being pulled out of a raging battle, he looked good. On the positive side, the wound from a lance he’d taken through the torso was gone, and he could move his right shoulder again. On the negative side, the comforting weight of the weapons concealed in his duster was gone. Maybe he used them all on the demon horde.

“Oi!” he tried.

The murmur of voices continued, and he began to feel a prickle of unease when he heard his name mentioned. 

“Nothing to suss out, you wankers,” he tried again. “I’m dead, yeah?”

“You are dead,” a voice agreed.

He jumped and spun around, looking in every direction, including up and down. “Show yourself,” Spike snarled.

“Your mind cannot comprehend me,” the disembodied voice informed him, sounding bored.

“Yeah?” he shot back in a challenging voice. “Or you’re afraid to be corporeal within punching distance of me.” 

Silence.

Spike looked around. “You still there?” he asked gingerly.

“Yes. I’m your communicator for the proceeding.” 

“Communicator? What proceeding?”

“Hell will not take you.”

Right, they were getting somewhere. Spike wasn’t surprised that he was dead, not after being outnumbered ten thousand to one in that battle. Soddin’ Angel and his death wish. “What do you mean, hell won’t take me?”

“The hell dimension reserved for dusted vampires does not want you.”

“Bloody right they don’t,” Spike snarled at the air. “Those creaky old gits already there quakin’ at the thought of facing me.” Bravado got him through most of his existence; no need to stop now.

“The current discussion is whether a heavenly dimension will have you.”

All his bravado disappeared. A heavenly dimension? Like Buffy had known? Somewhere he could rest? Where maybe he’d see his mother or Joyce? Where one day he might –

No. Spike shut down every thought, every emotion. Never happen. No use hoping. Hope was the ultimate destroyer. Think he’d have learned that by now.

He donned his attitude once more and rolled his eyes. “Not happening,” he snorted. “You lot will just send me back, as usual.”

“You have done much good, William Henry Voss-Moncrief. The debate continues.”

“William Henry Pratt,” he protested. Spike never wanted his human surname connected to his deeds as a vampire. He’d been using Boris Karloff’s real name for so long, it felt like his. Wasn’t as though the actor was using it, plus the play on the word ‘prat’ was too hard to resist. Kept him humble. Well, a bit. “And it’s Spike,” he seethed belatedly, “or William the Bloody.”

A hint of a sigh was apparent in the disembodied voice. “None of the heavenly dimensions will accept the demon. Will you allow us to cleave that part of you?”

“What?” His voice went an octave higher. Cleave? “No!” His demon was him, and his soul was him, too. “You think I went through the soddin’ trials just to get separated again?”

“Then you will go to a dimension with other creatures like you. Your file is clos–” The voice stopped, then continued with mild interest. “Oh. There are no other creatures like you. This has not happened in eons.” A pause. “The Higher Powers will create a realm.”

Spike’s brow furrowed, not liking the sound of this. “What’s gonna happen to me there?”

“Nothing,” the voice said patiently. “Nothing bad or good, Two-natured, neither hell nor heaven. You will just be in your realm. Enjoy your existence.”

And Spike was flung into the ether.

***

London

August 2004

***

“I’m not the key. Or if I am, I don’t open anything anymore.”

Dawn remembered saying those words to Spike not long before Willow did the resurrection spell on Buffy. She remembered the look on his face after the reminder that her sister was dead, too, his sorrow, his love for them both.

She’d been wrong about a lot of things back then.

Dawn lifted her head, listening to the quiet in the luxury flat she shared with Buffy. She was alone. Buffy was shopping, out with one of her new girlfriends. She didn’t blame her sister; it was a gorgeous summer afternoon and London didn’t have nearly as many of those as southern California. Buffy invited her along, because they still didn’t have enough clothes, even a year after the Hellmouth closed. They would be starting university in September, both of them.

Buffy wanted to be normal, and finishing her college education was part of that. In May, after they found out, she’d resigned from the Council of Watchers and Slayers and started on a quest to enjoy the freedom that she could have claimed right after the Hellmouth closed. Dawn wasn’t sure she was at the ‘enjoy’ part of it yet, but Buffy was grimly determined to have a normal life. Which was fine; there were enough Slayers in the world now. She’d put in a year after Sunnydale, so it wasn’t as though she abandoned her duty or anything.

Dawn looked down at the items arranged on the floor around her. Buffy chose normal, but she was choosing to go down the opposite path. It took her a couple of years after the trauma of being bled for a hellgod’s ritual and her sister’s sacrifice to get her head around the fact that she wasn’t normal. She wondered how long it would take Buffy, then snorted a little. Never, probably. Her sister was a champion at denial.

Reaching out, she made a minute adjustment to the compass in front of her. It wasn’t a ritual object, just a symbol. She wasn’t actually going anywhere, so the half circle of items around her were for orientation and to mark her location: one of her hairs entwined with Buffy’s as an anchor to her self; a cast iron miniature of a double-decker bus for physical place (and having iron to repel some of the wilder, darker kinds of magic was a plus); one of her watches to keep her tied to her timeline; a globe to represent her destination; and the cheap compass because she was traveling.

Well, not physically. She wasn’t ready for that, not yet. This was just the third time she’d projected herself astrally, sending her spirit away from her body. The first time, she wanted to see the world without shrimp that Anya mentioned. It was easier than she expected, but pretty dull, almost exactly like regular Earth. On the last trip, she timed it so she could land on the Santa Monica pier at sunset. She got to see the red and gold colors of the sun over the water and the Ferris wheel before having to fight the pull of her body. At first, she guessed was that it was easier to open doors and peek into other dimensions with her Key powers than to teleport within her home dimension. Then she realized her body was exhausted, as though it had been straining to join her spirit.

Dawn thought traveling around the world might be super easy.

She wished Anya were still around. The ex-demon wouldn’t judge her for wanting to know more about her abilities, and she had that store of more than a thousand years of knowledge. Dawn idly wondered if Giles missed having such an amazing resource. She never really got to see Scooby meetings back in the day, but Anya must have been able to solve a lot of puzzles. She probably forgot more stuff than Giles had in all his books.

But Anya was dead on the Hellmouth, like Amanda, like – Well, not like Spike. He was dead in Los Angeles, and he never even bothered to tell anybody he was back. The scryer for the Devon coven did an amazing feat of magic and recreated an image of the battle behind the Hyperion Hotel, but it raised more questions than it answered. 

How could Spike be there, after he burned on the Hellmouth? And why would Spike be fighting alongside Angel? He seemed to be in good form, taking out terrifyingly fast six-legged demons, a giant, and a few trolls before sacrificing himself to save Angel. He dove at the big vampire, shoving him out of a scorching gout of dragon fire. Not that it mattered; Angel was fried by the next blast. The demon army was sucked up into a portal just afterwards, leaving behind two dozen dead citizens, including the charred corpse of another of Angel’s people, a man named Charles Gunn.

Buffy’s old Watcher, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, was dead elsewhere in L.A. Willow’s friend Fred Burkle died in the alley, but she’d been poisoned by something that made her blue even before the battle began. She was torn apart with apparent glee by some monstrous squid-like demons. Willow had a hard time with it, turning her face away.

Buffy watched the whole thing without giving away a single emotion. Dawn didn’t know how she managed; the horror of the attack and the bravery of the little band of fighters were heartrending, even if you didn’t know them personally. The Slayer – even with all the other ones, Buffy was always The – didn’t even blink when a teary Andrew admitted he’d known Spike was alive. That explained how Spike could be in Los Angeles, at least. Andrew had seen the blond vampire twice, once when he was retrieving the insane Dana (who cut off Spike’s arms!?) and again in Rome. Buffy’s eyelid did twitch when Andrew said that Angel was there looking for her.

None of that explained why interdimensional demons had attacked Angel. The big vampire had been working for the bad guys, so Giles’ best guess was that Angel betrayed them or cheated them.

Once, Dawn would have pointed out that Spike wouldn’t be there, fighting with him if it was just a dustup between bad guys. But that was a couple of years ago, before she realized that he wasn’t her friend, that he never really cared about her.

He was just an asshole rapist.

Dawn shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts once again. They went to Spike too often, and he definitely didn’t deserve a moment of her time. Thinking about a hell dimension that spewed out demon armies (and dragons, just like the one that came through when Doc slashed her stomach and she bled) –

She took a breath.

Not going to think about hell dimensions.

She wanted to see beautiful dimensions, lovely places that tilted toward the good side of the balance. Places with order and gardens and laughing children. Dawn gathered her thoughts, focusing on order and beauty. That garden, maybe. She wanted to see a garden in full bloom.

So she did.

***

Spike sat. 

He did that a lot.

When he first arrived in his new home, he had walked, trying to find something, anything, in the featureless grey. The temperature was unvarying and certainly in the zone of comfort for a vampire. The diffuse light was unchanging, too, brighter than he preferred. There seemed to be air, because he could breathe when he wanted to, and gravity was the same. No blood, no food or beverage, because he didn’t need any. And the whole thing was… empty.

It seemed endless, but since there were no landmarks, who knew? It could be a ten-foot space, with some sort of treadmill underneath so that it only seemed he was making progress.

But there was nowhere to get to, nor was there any place to get away from. So, for the first few… days?... he slept. That helped. Once he was well rested, he could clearly reason that this wasn’t a hell dimension. The Sunnydale High School basement was a more classic hell, with the First Evil’s torture woven into his own self-recrimination to create a perfect shroud of misery.

Similarly, this was clearly not heaven. He never thought that his burden of guilt and doubt would make the trip to paradise. He was just himself. To be in heaven, he would have to be someone better. 

Or not be himself at all, he thought, his demon letting out a low growl.

It wasn’t purgatory, either, because there was no sense of waiting for something else to happen. Nothing was going to happen to him, neither good nor bad, just like the disembodied voice told him. And he was going to be alone here forever, because no other being was like him.

Once these truths were firmly established, he had a brief period of productivity. If he could clothe himself under Pavayne’s attack, what could he do here? Spike had thoughts of a distillery, a library, or just a really sweet gaming console with a big screen.

As it turned out, hard surfaces at angles was pretty much the extent of what he could create.

He could create walls, which he would then lean against. All he had to do was concentrate and will them into existence. He spent an entire day (day?) creating rooms with doorways and rectangular sarcophagi to lay upon, with square windows that opened onto the grey sameness. He fell asleep atop the hard surface, feeling like he accomplished something, at least.

All of it was gone when he woke up.

That was when he accepted that madness was inevitable. If the whole place was empty, couldn’t the Powers That Bugger have made him empty, too? Not that he deserved mercy, but he’d been mad before. But, no, he was just himself, same as always. So he’d been doing whatever he could to stave off insanity.

At first, he made lists. Anything to impose order on his thoughts.

Lists of the tastiest food, the tastiest prey. Lists of Drusilla’s prettiest gowns. Lists of the humans he hated most (a tie between Rupert Giles and Richard Carlysle, twelve decades separating the gits). Lists of his smartest moves and his stupidest ideas.

When that got too painful, he spent a while trying to figure out how he ended up stuck in a dated look after nearly a century of keeping up with the times. The best he could figure, he held on to the new wave image because he liked how dangerous he looked and because his prized duster was the centerpiece. Also, it was easy to maintain without the aid of mirrors. Dru liked it, too, called the late twentieth century his ‘black period.’ He had a lot of reasons, but by the time he made it to Sunnydale, he knew he needed to change.

Of course, once he was in Sunnydale, no one really cared if he changed, clothes or anything else.

That kicked off a period of deep reflection – certainly not brooding – about how it all went pear-shaped once he stepped onto the soil of good old Sunnyhell. He let go of a decades-long relationship to reach for the illusion of what he always wanted: the love of someone worthy. And the Slayer did love him by the end, even if it wasn’t the same way he loved her. But to get that crumb, he had to twist himself and change so much, he wasn’t even the same being who’d arrived at the Hellmouth, seeking a cure for Drusilla. 

And he wasn’t the person he’d been in Los Angeles, either. Now that he was out of that crucible, it was clear to him that the magic flash that gave him his body back messed with his grey matter. All he wanted before he was solid was to find Buffy; afterwards, he wasn’t able to concentrate on anything long enough to make a plan. Doyle – Lindsey – had already messed with him before he showed up to mess with him.

The main piece of evidence was that he couldn’t identify Dana as a slayer. Sure, she was a nutter of the first order, but he hunted slayers. That alone was enough to convince him that his body came back with some magical codicils. Like Lindsey, he was obsessed with Angel, choosing to stay with the Great Forehead rather than go find the woman he loved.

And Buffy cared for him; that much was obvious by the end. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t in love with him. He just wanted to be in her vicinity.

And that didn’t matter at all, not now he was truly dead.

Fuck Lindsey with his own pointy-toed cowboy boots, anyway. Angel was probably Shanshu’d now, living a great life and never thinking of either of them.

And Buffy was probably right beside him, looking up at him with those amazing hazel-green eyes. Maybe now the tosser would get it in his head that they weren’t blue. Though Angel would probably only gaze into her eyes to see his own reflection, making it all about himself as he took for granted the chance to be in her arms, to –

Sod this deep reflection shite, anyway.

So Spike moved on to poems, but the beautiful verse he could recite didn’t fit this drab place.

Songs, though… He was a jukebox with over a hundred years of selections, a song for every mood. But while he always started with something upbeat like The Ramones or Blondie, he tended to end up with The Smiths or similarly depressing songs. When he found himself singing The Who’s ‘Behind Blue Eyes,’ Spike gave up and limited himself to vulgar songs.

Which, to be honest, was a diversion. Of all the songs in all the bars over all the years, which was the filthiest? Now, he could get behind a list like that. He’d think, rank, sing, and then sleep. It took days (days? who knew, certainly not him) before he had his final list. Spike rather felt bad that the Sex Pistols’ ‘Friggin in the Riggin’ was at the bottom of it, but the lads were babies and pikers compared to the rest of the list. It was more about the offensive than the filth.

He devoted a day to the song, making sure he remembered every lyric and word, singing in a voice that never got raw. Spike was fairly certain about the middle of the song: “The first mate's name was Cooper/By Christ he was a trooper/He jerked and jerked until he worked/Himself into a stupor.”

And wouldn’t that be useful? Other than the months the Slayer was dead, when he was, too, he’d pleasantly whiled away probably a tenth of his time in Sunnydale with his hand wrapped around his cock. So of course here he couldn’t frig, with or without rigging. When the soddin’ Powers said nothing would happen to him, that apparently included stiffies. 

Spike went back to the first verse about the good ship Venus, singing and trying to recall the first part, the words before “the figurehead was a whore in bed/and the mast a mammoth penis.”

Then something happened in his world of nothing: a figure appeared, tall and slender, female. Her face was all enormous blue eyes and a dropped jaw. “Spike?”

He stopped singing. “Nibblet?”


	2. Harsher Shade of Pale

“Nibblet?” The word was hoarse.  
“Spike?” Dawn said again, stunned. The two of them stood there in the empty dullness, just staring at each other.  
Then Spike’s shocked expression crumpled into grief. “Oh, fuck. No. Dawnie.” He sat down abruptly, covering his face. The First Evil hadn’t been able to use her image back in Sunnydale, because she was alive. If it could appear as the Bit now, that meant she was dead.  
Dawn stood immobile with disbelief, watching him weep. She had a sudden shard of memory from the morning Buffy died, nothing clear because she’d been grief-stricken herself, but she was sure she’d seen him overcome like this once before.  
His pain was hard to look at, so she examined their surroundings. Where were they? For this trip, her eighth, she’d looked for somewhere full of love. She expected to find herself viewing something romantic like couples strolling on Parisian bridges or maybe a nursery of well-tended youngsters. Instead, she was… Well, she really didn’t know where this could be. It hardly seemed to have form at all, just a surface to stand upon surrounded by boring greyness.  
And it had Spike, who by now was drawing in harsh breaths and swabbing his eyes. Had he really been singing at the top of his lungs about a mammoth penis? After he saw her, though, after the surprise, he just collapsed. Dawn suppressed her instinct to go comfort him, to give him a hug.   
He didn’t deserve that.  
The vampire put out a hand, finding a wall that was invisible to Dawn and levering himself upright. He cleared his throat. “How’d it happen, then?” He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here, but she looked like a young adult, and she’d cut her hair. Spike forced a tremulous smile. “After a long, full life, I hope.”  
“What?”   
He flinched away from the harsh tone. First Evil, he reminded himself. Not likely to get any answers from it. None he wanted, anyway. Spike wiped his face again. “Sod off,” he ordered, “before I drop another town on your arse.”  
“What?” she asked again, even more sharply. Dawn rolled her eyes, impatient with him and the whole situation. All she wanted was to find a dimension with love, and somehow she’d messed up and wound up here. “What is this place?”  
He sneered at her and swept out his arm. “Welcome to my world. Hell wouldn’t take me, and heaven didn’t want the whole package. Realm made just for me, so bugger off.”  
Dawn looked at the tearstained vampire, her heart hardening at the harsh words. “Fine. I’m leaving.”  
“And don’t come back here looking like her, either.”  
The apparition faded. Spike looked around in apprehension. Nothing there, just as it should be.  
But his concentration was gone, and he couldn’t keep his emotions at bay. He slumped down once more, his hands covering his face, and sobbed for his Lil Bit, for the tragic brevity of mortal life, and for all he’d held once and lost.

Dawn settled back into herself, twitching with restrained emotions. What the hell was that? Drop a town on her?  
And then her eyes widened in realization. Spike thought she was the First Evil, and it could only appear as dead people. That’s why he asked how it happened. If she’d had a long life.  
Why had he wept at the thought of her death? He didn’t care anything about her. That was more than obvious in the way he didn’t bother to tell her that he was back from the dead.  
Only, he was dead again. All of the Angel Investigations people were dead. Why was he alone in that miserable, colorless place? What did he say? Hell wouldn’t have him, and heaven didn’t want the whole package. Both demon and soul, she guessed.   
Her body began to protest against the long minutes she’d been sitting cross-legged, so she shifted her legs, careful of the semi-circle of anchoring objects, and got up. Dawn went to her vanity.  
She had tears on her face.  
A second later, she swiped them away. No tears for that asshole.   
Anger swept in, filling her with a single, fine emotion instead of the painful splinters of a dozen others. Anger was good. She was going to go back there and get some answers, dammit, get him to –   
Only she couldn’t, not right now. She couldn’t project herself again this soon. Each time she projected herself into another dimension was easier. Her power and control were growing, but not enough for two projections in one day. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow, she was going to go back and give him a piece of her mind.

Spike sat with his knees up, his locked hands resting on them and his forehead against his wrist. Years. He kept thinking ‘days,’ which naturally turned into weeks… but he’d already been here years. No reason to lie to himself.  
The First showing up, though… Nothing was supposed to happen in this place, not anything good or bad. The bloody Powers had fucked up somehow.  
And why did the First have to use Dawn, anyway?  
The answer was obvious: because Dawn was effective at torturing him.  
Spike knew he’d slept since the apparition appeared, but he mostly just sat, giving up on the grand filthy songs project. Giving up on everything.  
A world without the Nibblet in it somewhere was a bleak world, indeed. He would never know, so he just decided that she’d lived a happy life and died suddenly at ninety-nine. Whatever she’d chosen to do, she was successful at it and had pots of money. She married some nice bloke (who remained fuzzy and unfocused) who loved her madly all her life. They had three children, eleven grandchildren, and even some great-grandbabies. Bits of the Bit still in the world, passed down to new generations. There had been no demon, no apocalypse. Nothing that he might have prevented with his presence.  
Didn’t matter, no how. He was dead, yeah? Not his responsibility.  
Except, if he’d gone to find her and big sis when he got solid again, maybe he could have…  
Spike grabbed fistfuls of his hair and gave the strands a sharp tug. No use playing at might-have-beens. Not like he’d have been welcome, anyway. Bit never did unbend even the tiniest amount, and Bu– the Slayer wouldn’t have wanted to see him dragging back in with a hopeful look on his face. That much was obvious from the disastrous visit to Rome.  
He clasped his hands together again and rested his forehead against his wrist once more. Maybe he could sleep again, just escape from this…   
“It’s hell!” he snarled, going to game face and raising it to the not-sky. “Fuckin’ Powers! You lot really messed up this time!”

The only thing to see in the featureless world was a lump of black leather and denim on the ground. Dawn approached the huddled figure cautiously. She ended up waiting two days, until Buffy went out for an appointment with the manicurist and she had enough uninterrupted time alone.  
When he didn’t leap up and confront her, she took the opportunity to examine his realm again. This was supposed to be a place for Spike? He was constantly seeking diversions. If this was supposed to be his world, there should be television, books, music… Liquor, at the very least. And a comfortable chair or two. This barren space just wasn’t him.  
“Spike?”  
He rolled into a seated position with his usual supernatural grace. “Figured you be back. Told you not to wear her face.”  
She already decided to let him go on thinking that she was the First Evil. He’d probably be more willing to answer her questions that way. “What happened in Los Angeles?” Because no one knew. If Dawn could bring back answers, that would be important. She could use that as a bargaining chip if she got in trouble for using her Key powers.  
“Why’re you askin’ me?”  
Dawn blinked. “You were there. Duh.”  
“So were you. ‘Duh.’ Evil in every soddin’ wall of that place.” He gave her a resentful look.  
“What happened in the alley?” Her voice was sharper.  
“Fuck you.”  
She leaned back in surprise. Wait, was this really Spike? “You never talk to me like that.”  
“’S’where you messed up, innit? Don’t have leave to talk to the Bit at all.”  
Dawn flinched. She didn’t want to, but she noticed the resignation and grief on his face, heard the weariness in his tone. She wasn’t going to let it get to her. “You got anything better to do?”   
He watched her gesture around sarcastically and leaned closer, staring up at her with narrowed eyes. Something about those eyes struck unease inside her, but he was speaking. “You want to impersonate Dawn Summers? Consider this, you rabid cunt: the Platelet knows that I don’t blab to tormenting bitches.” The vampire rolled to his feet and walked away.  
“Wait!”  
Spike threw a rude gesture over his shoulder. “Go hunt up Bob Barker and mess with him, bitch.”  
Dawn found herself dropping back into her physical body with a thump. She drew in a shaky breath. So much for impersonating the First Evil. Spike wouldn’t give anything away to it any more than he’d given up her name to Glory.  
Oh, God. Bob Barker. He’d told her a highly edited version of the torture Glorificus visited on him, laughing about how he had her minions ready to swarm down to Burbank in search of the game show host.  
Like a first trickle of water presaging a flash flood, other memories came back, quicker and harder, buffeting her until she was curled up on the floor, her anchoring objects scattered around her. Spike rustling up a makeshift helmet for the motorcycle he won in battle. A mama ghora demon gnawing on his middle. The blond vampire squinting at the instructions on a box of pancake mix in the morning, trying to stay awake long enough to make her breakfast. Sitting on the countertop in their kitchen, smiling at something her mother was saying. A presence behind her, guarding her at a respectful distance as she visited Joyce and Buffy’s graves. Spike holding out her English textbook and reciting a Donne poem (“Death, be not proud…”).  
And all of that weighed nothing, nothing against what he tried to do to Buffy.  
And what he did to her.  
Because maybe her sister could forgive him an attempted rape, but Dawn was never going to forgive him for abandoning her. She sat up and resolutely wiped her face clear of tears.   
Her cheeks stubbornly stayed wet, though. She was still swiping at them for another fifteen minutes.

Buffy was home that night, though she kept her mobile in her hand as she sat on the sofa, texting Tamsin, Gemma, and Rhonwen. The four girls were inseparable. Three of them were ‘normal:’ funded by their parents, idle, shallow, and pretty. The fourth one aspired to be like the others. When Buffy resigned from the Council, Giles gave her a credit card. In the three months since, he never once blinked at paying any of the bills.  
“Can I ask you a question?” The game show they were nominally watching went off. Before the next one started, Dawn figured she had time. She wanted this to be short.  
“Sure.” Buffy was staring at her phone, her thumbs busy on the keys.  
“How did you forgive Spike for what he did?”  
The Slayer froze and looked up, her eyes wide as she faced her sister. “What?”  
“I mean, I know you did. You rescued him from the Hellmouth, even after he killed those people.”  
“He didn’t,” Buffy corrected her automatically. “That was the First Evil.”  
“Whatever.” She shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the entity she had impersonated. “How could you forgive him?”  
Buffy’s gaze went past Dawn. She didn’t answer, just stayed silent for so long that Dawn figured she wasn’t going to say anything. Just before she rolled her eyes and turned back to the telly, Buffy finally spoke.  
“I asked Anya when she was still a demon, you know? She said he wasn’t crying out for vengeance, not even a little bit.”  
“Vengeance?” She was puzzled. “Spike?”  
“Yeah.” Buffy looked sad. “He forgave me. And Anya said I wasn’t a good candidate, either.”  
“Why would Spike need to forgive you?” She asked the question slowly, frowning.  
Again, Buffy didn’t answer. “He didn’t come to the house to r-rape me, Dawnie. I-I’m not going to go into any details, but that wasn’t what he was trying to do.”  
“But Xander said –”  
“Xander didn’t see anything. And I don’t know if you remember, but that was right after,” Buffy drew in a harsh breath, “what we saw in the cameras the nerds planted.”  
Oh. Anya. “When he really, really hated Spike.”  
Buffy nodded. “He did. Neither –” She closed her eyes. “I wasn’t with Spike; Xander wasn’t with Anya. It hurt to see that, but neither of us had any – It wasn’t cheating or anything. Not our business, not at that point.”  
“You cried, though.” Dawn remembered that part vividly.  
“I cried.” Her cell phone dinged, and Buffy looked down at her mobile without really seeing it. “I spent that whole winter telling Spike he was…” She stood abruptly. “I told him that he was a soulless, evil thing. What else could he be?” The Slayer headed for the stairs, stopping on the second step. “Dawn? I’m not going to talk about it anymore, but… Both of us made bad decisions, but Spike wasn’t the one who had a soul then.”  
“What about not telling us he got resurrected?” When Buffy looked puzzled, she added, “Can you forgive that?”  
No answer.   
She watched her sister’s quick feet carry her up the steps and heard the quiet snick of Buffy’s bedroom door closing. Dawn wasn’t sure what to think. The whole conversation was disquieting. Why would Buffy need Spike’s forgiveness?

“Back again?” Spike drawled.  
“If me being here bothers you,” Dawn said with a shrug, “yeah.”  
“Been working on my top lists.” He gave the apparition of the First Evil a smirk with an extra twist of his lip to make it as aggravating as possible. “Wanna hear my top most painful? Staked by that twat Riley with a plastic stake, right in the heart. Next, first time Angelus tortured me. Not used it back then, so I didn’t know how to handle it. The Slayer beating me into a pulp by the police station, not that it kept her from turning herself in.” He gave her a malevolent smile. “Wanna know what’s number one?”  
Dawn shrugged. “Whatever.”  
“Glorificus torturing me for hours, trying to get me to betray the real Dawn Summers.”  
She kind of expected that would be at the top of his list. Any beating that left him in such terrible shape that Xander felt bad for him must have been painful, not that anyone let her see the aftermath. Dawn wanted to look away now, but made herself just stare at him with a fixed, bored expression.  
“What you did to me on the Hellmouth?” he sneered. “Not even in the running. Piss off.”  
Everything she wanted to say stuck in her throat. Dawn whirled and dropped back into reality, breathing hard so that she didn’t cry. He thought she was the First Evil there to torture him. Again. And she just let him go on thinking that. If me being here bothers you…  
And he was in her face, like he was in the right. Trying to get me to betray the real Dawn Summers. Well, he did betray me, she thought resentfully, me and Buffy both.  
It wasn’t until she was heating a frozen entrée, her dinner for one since Buffy was out with her posse, that Dawn let herself think about the other ordeals on the list. Riley staked him with a plastic stake? That must have been those weeks when he was locked up underground in the Initiative complex. She shivered, thinking of his description of the featureless white cells. Then she frowned. That grey dimension of his was pretty featureless, too.  
Angelus torturing him, though… Did soulless Angel do that even to his own family? Spike spent almost twenty years with the Scourge. Dawn watched the little white tray spin inside the microwave, frowning. She’d never really thought about that, how he came along at the end of their reign of terror, a mere fledge trying to hang with three master vampires.  
The beeping dragged her from the unsettling thoughts. She wasn’t hungry for the curry anymore, but her stomach was empty and it was food. Dawn ate automatically, then tossed the empty container and absently washed the spoon.  
The one she didn’t want to think about was what he said about Buffy beating him, not with the extra details about a police station and turning herself in. Buffy was the Slayer, stronger than any vampire. And she had gone to turn herself in once, determined that while she might be a murderer, she wouldn’t be Faith. Dawn fruitlessly tried to stop Buffy.  
Apparently, Spike tried to stop Buffy, too.  
She really didn’t want to think about those miserable days. Buffy’s birthday wasn’t long after that, and there was a lot she didn’t want to remember about it, like the wish and the shoplifting reveal and the injured construction worker.  
And Spike’s bruised, swollen face.  
Buffy’s quiet words haunted her: Spike wasn’t the one who had a soul then.  
Dawn considered the quiet flat. Buffy wouldn’t be back for at least another three or four hours. And it was so easy to get to wherever Spike was now, hardly any effort at all. She went upstairs and laid out her anchors. Just one more time. She’d pretend to be the First Evil just one more time, get her answers. Then either she’d tell Spike who she was or she’d just stop visiting him.


	3. Truth Always Has Consequences

“Physical pain is easy.”

Spike jerked at the sound of Dawn’s voice. He hadn’t been asleep, but he wasn’t expecting the First to be back so soon. It had only been a… day. “Yeah? Guess you think not, since you aren’t solid.”

“What hurt the most about me? About Dawn. Emotionally, I mean.” She made her glare extra cold to hide how vulnerable she felt.

Spike cocked his head and considered her. The First Evil knew everything, anyway; it wasn’t as though answering could give it any more ammunition to use against him. And even the ultimate idea of evil was company in this empty place.

“Knowing I had to stay,” he shrugged. “Couldn’t just leave Sunnydale or pick a fight I couldn’t win. Had to stay with you after the Slayer jumped.”

“Because why would you care if I lost yet another person?” she asked bitterly.

“Wasn’t exactly thinking clearly, not those days. Just going on, that was painful, but I had to. For you.” Spike looked worn, reliving the emptiness of a world without Buffy. “Joyce’s death. You were so sad, Nib, and there was nothing I could do to make it better. Not really.”

Dawn almost sniffled.

Spike’s gaze went unfocused as he remembered something else. “Up on Glory’s tower, just before Doc tossed me off the side…” His attention snapped back to her. “Looked at each other right before, both of us knowing I’d failed… Yeah, that one hurt. Leaving you alone up there? That hurt.”

His quiet voice was getting to her, making her think he cared. “What about when I threatened to light you on fire in your sleep?” she snapped defensively. “Did that hurt?”

“No. Deserved that one, didn’t I?”

Dawn couldn’t understand why it was so hard to breathe. Her lungs felt raw, but she got in enough air to attack anew. “What about Buffy? What hurt the most there, you jerk?”

He laughed, a humorless sound. “Might be easier cataloging what didn’t hurt.”

“Tell me,” she demanded.

“When she lit up like bloody Christmas and kissed Angel,” he spat, “when she couldn’t decide whether she even liked me. When I told her I got my soul back, and she just left me hanging on the cross, sizzling like a steak. When she just left me in the alley, didn’t even check –” Spike drew himself up and gave a shrug that tried to be careless. “Anytime she left, really.”

Dawn knew what Buffy said, but she had held onto this for so long, she couldn’t make herself let go. “I figured that realizing you were about to rape my sister would be the most painful.”

“No, Bit, that –”

“Stop calling me that.”

“– That was my own single most painful moment. Full stop.”

They stared at each other for a long time.

“I wasn’t the man I thought I was. Thought I had… honor. I was gonna be the one who never hurt her, you know.” Spike finally turned away. “Never intended to hurt you, either.”

“Well, you did.”

“I know, Bi– I know.” He bowed his head, ashamed.

“You abandoned me.”

“Better off without me.”

“And you raped my sister.”

“I didn’t –” His shoulders sagged. “Not for lack of trying, yeah?”

“How many other women did you rape, huh?”

“Eleven.” The word was small. “And two men.”

“What?” Dawn said, stunned. She never expected he’d know the answer; she never expected such a small number over the course of the vampire’s long existence; she never expected a womanizer like Spike to mention men.

“Part of ’Gelus’ training, yeah?” He shrugged, still not looking at her. “Blood makes you hard. His philosophy was, why waste a ready prick. Always pointing out that I was a crap demon, not wanting to torture them. No ‘art’ to me.” Spike sat down abruptly, his legs sprawled, and he leaned over his knees to fiddle with the buckles of his boots.

He looked up with amber eyes and spoke through sharp fangs. “The hunt, the feed… Yeah, fuck, the most brilliant thing ever. Your strength and skill to track and isolate prey, then the blood itself, bloody life it is, running down your throat. Course it gets you hard.”

Dawn took a step back, incorporeal or not, when she heard the crunch of bone as Spike went to game face. The sound repeated, and she saw a now-blue eye peek around at her.

“But the rot Angel wanted me to do… Never really in me, ’specially not after holding Drusilla through her nightmares of what he did to her. Did what he made me, but when he wasn’t there… What the old sod didn’t know wasn’t gonna hurt me.”

She didn’t have a throat to feel dry and raspy, and yet it did. “You’re over a century old. You expect me to believe that’s all? Eleven?” Thirteen, she should have said.

He lifted a shoulder. “No, I expect you to torture me. Truth, lies, won’t matter. Or maybe a lie might feed your existence, in the service of evil. Truth it is.” Finished fiddling with his boots, he drew his knees toward his chest and settled his forearms on them. “Eleven women, two men. Want to know how many times I been raped?”

Dawn flinched. “No.” The word tore from her defensively. What? Spike?

“Lost count at twenty-six. Couldn’t remember if it was twenty-six or -seven, so I stopped counting. Know what it feels like, after, once the shackles come off. How you feel less.” He touched his fist to his chest. “You think I’d ever want to make B–” A soul-deep, profound sadness settled over the vampire, aging his ageless face and stilling his form. “Yet I did.”

“Angel r–?” she managed when he abruptly went quiet. That had been part of Angelus’ training?

Spike looked into the distance. “Hard to know, sometimes, which it would be. Another happy night of mouths and hands, cocks and quims… Or would it be a round with the chains and the hot pokers, Darla’s knives, Dru and her holy water…”

He trailed off, his neck at an angle, shoulders tensed. Dawn stared at him in horror. “Dru? But Drusilla loved you.” She had always liked that Spike talked to her as though she was a grownup. Only now did she understand how much he must have held back.

He turned to her then. “No, love. She did the best she could, poor barmy thing, but she only ever really loved Daddy.” Spike rolled to his side and kipped to his feet, pacing away from her. “Once Angelus left us, I made a vow to my Dru, trying to show her that she could believe in me, that I’d take care of her. Promised I’d never be with anyone else, that my body was hers.” 

Spike spun around to face her. “An’ it was. Never with anyone else, the whole time. Could have, you know. Didn’t think about how many times Dru’d do a bunk, how she would be with someone else, months at a time. Know what you’re thinking, but it wouldn’t have been rape, either. Lots of birds like the look of me. No matter. Kept my word to her.”

He paced away from her, Big Bad image in full bloom. The movement was so much like his old swagger that Dawn felt her heart harden. “Your word. That’s not worth much, is it? You promised you’d look after me. That lasted until Buffy came back, and you got ‘distracted.’” She even put finger quotes on the last word.

“Pet,” he started, his tone tentative, before he saw her face. Spike raised a placating hand. “Sorry.” No nicknames. “Can’t say you’re wrong. Buffy first came back, threw me for a while. Knowing she’d been dragged out of heaven by,” his fists clenched at the memory, “her friends… Just couldn’t be around them without wanting to throttle them. Chip fired off its warning shots for weeks whenever I saw Red.

“So, yeah, I did a piss-poor job Bit-sitting. I… I’m sorry for that.” Spike peeked at her again. Her arms were folded, a classic Summers pose. He sighed. “Wouldn’t have mattered. The Slayer released me from my promise, anyway.”

“What? Released you?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his messy curls. “Told me she didn’t want me in your lives. Didn’t really understand until I saw that social worker. Clicked then, how… unwholesome I was. Wrong kind of guard dog.” He made an unamused sound. “Bad dog.”

“Buffy told you,” she swallowed, “not to…”

“Not to come to your house, to send you home if you came to the crypt. Family Services wouldn’t approve.” His lips curved toward a smile, but the attempt died. “Mostly, it was about keeping you, keeping custody, but I reckon she was afraid that you’d figure out she was lowering herself by associating with the likes of me. Always right quick, you were.”

“Your secret affair,” she sneered. And Dawn knew why that one hurt. Buffy and Spike together was everything she’d wanted then, her two protectors in love. The three of them could have been a family, something she desperately needed. But they were stupid and selfish and ruined it.

“Yeah. Kind of secret you take to your grave.” He managed a smile this time, no real humor to it. “Swore to dust me if I ever told anyone. Like anyone would have believed me.” Spike looked away. “Though I s’pose Xander did. Sis wasn’t wrong. Knowing she’d let me touch her… Floppy Boy looked at her like she was dirt.” He closed his eyes. Just another moment where he’d hurt the woman he loved.

Dawn realized for the first time that the reason Buffy never told anyone wasn’t because Spike was a vampire. It was because her friends didn’t want her to have that relationship. Her friends thought it was wrong.

That was the same reason she was exploring her power in secrecy. If any of the Sunnydale crew knew, they’d tell her she was wrong, that she shouldn’t. Dawn wasn’t hurting anyone, not even herself; she was being careful. But none of that would matter. She wasn’t supposed to be the Key. And Buffy was never to have feelings for a vampire.

Suddenly it made a lot more sense that Buffy didn’t seem to have a free evening for dinner with the Scoobies.

“Spike?” And Dawn knew her voice wasn’t hard enough, but she had to know. “Why didn’t you let us know you came back?”

He shook his head and looked away. “Ghost for a while, then my head wasn’t – Oh, sod it.” Spike turned to glare at her. “No place for me. You hated me, just like the rest of them, and… Well, no secret that Buffy only has room for one vampire in her heart, is it?”

Dawn scoffed. “That never stopped you before.”

“Never had any other place to be, did I? You think I enjoyed my time on the Hellmouth?”

That made Dawn pause. She’d never thought about it; Spike was just… there. But he’d lost so much in Sunnydale, hadn’t he? From Angelus taking Drusilla away to getting the chip to whatever it was that made him act so out-of-character that he had to get a soul to fix himself. Dawn grabbed onto that reminder of his evil. “Sunnydale’s gone,” she pressed. “We aren’t.”

He gestured around them. “Yeah, you kinda are. For me.”

Another tug somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. “Why, Spike? Really? You should have been with us.”

The vampire gave her a sneering onceover. “Right, like you woulda wanted to ever see me darkening your door.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I was going to, only once I was back on the physical plane… Dunno, wasn’t just that I wanted to be my own man or that I was tired of that ever-popular Kick-the-Spike game…” He trailed off again and leaned against an invisible wall. “Best I can figure, the magic that gave me back my body came with a little extra mojo.”

She was fluent in Spike. “You were under a spell?”

His mouth tightened, and he nodded reluctantly. “Went from making plans to get to Europe as a ghost – that’s the only info granddad would give me for a location – to competing with him once I came over corporeal. Couldn’t,” Spike grimaced, “seem to focus on anything for five minutes. Except for him. Happiest when I was annoying him, but mostly I was just… his sidekick. And wasn’t that a fuckin’ comedown.”

“Who cast the spell?”

“As if you don’t know,” he huffed. “That lawyer who lied to me, told me he was from the Powers and was gonna be ringside in my corner while I fought the good fight. That wanker was almost as obsessed with the Great Forehead as Drusilla.” Spike sent her a venomous look. “Or your sis.” He snorted. “Peaches shoulda just shagged Lindsey, given him what he wanted. That woulda ended the fixation.” 

When he saw that Dawn-the-First-Evil was gaping at him, he gave her a malevolent grin. It was the first break in its imitation of his Bit. He squared off against it. “What, the Slayer never told you her pookie was for shite in bed? As many times as we fucked, I would know. All about him, innit?” He leaned toward her, running a hand over his abdomen. “Now, me? I made the Slayer sing. Hit those high notes she never even knew about. Shagged her every which way. She ever tell you? She might have hated me and hated herself, but there was something,” and he adjusted himself through his jeans, “that kept your sister coming back.”

It worked. The Dawn-thing tried to act the way his Nibblet would and disappeared, just like he hoped. He stood up straight and thumped his head against the wall. Not that he could really hurt himself; he’d tried many times, but it wasn’t allowed in this hollow world.

Dawn shouldn’t be allowed, either, he thought resentfully. First Evil or not, it shouldn’t be Dawn. He kept seeing the way her eyes widened in distress at the end. Spike felt grubby from the whole thing. 

Sinking down to the floor, he drew up his knees and gave his best effort to ‘The Captain’s Wife’s Lament,’ a rollicking ditty that wasn’t hardly filthy enough for his list. Still, it could usually make him smile, and he needed one just now to get the First’s visit out of his mind. “Oh, there's seamen on the windowsill/and seamen in the yard/The seamen even left a stain upon the Saint Bernard/Although I am a patient wife/’Tis more than I can bear/To wake up in the morning/With your seamen in my hair!”

It didn’t work. He toppled to his side with the last word, arms wrapped tightly around himself, and wept.

How long since he’d let himself think of the Slayer? Spike felt his immaterial heart literally ache at the thought of his love, of all that he’d done wrong and all that he feared he’d done wrong. He wouldn’t let her name cross his lips, tried not to think of her at all, but the First Evil showing up as Dawn brought back everything about the little girl he’d tried to love and protect, including memories of his unnatural, unrequited love for her sister.

Her rare half-smiles, the furrow of her brow when she reached her peak, the angle of her arm drawn back for a punch, her unceasing bravery and love for a world that never knew. Everything bright in his dismal life of endless failure. Spike wished more than anything he could have made her happy or even simply eased her burden, just once.

He wept a long time before falling into an uneasy sleep. Spike dreamed of the Slayer smiling, open and joyful, her arms wrapped around a safe and happy Dawn as he spied on them from the other side of a window.

I won’t go back, Dawn decided, leaning into the spray of the shower. That’s it. I just won’t go there, not again.

The awful things he said, the things she’d never once thought about. And so much of what she assumed that was just wrong.

She couldn’t bring herself to think about what his vampire family did to him, so she thought about what her family did to her. Buffy banned Spike from their house. She was ashamed of being with a vampire, so she threatened to kill him if he ever told. 

Spike had loved Buffy for so long; he must have been bursting with happiness that she finally got with him. But Buffy didn’t want anyone to know, and since Spike was friends with her sister, she made him stay away. Spike talked to her, one of the few who did, so Buffy cut him out of their lives and never even thought of Dawn.

She didn’t have many friends. The monks must have done that on purpose. That way, fewer people might find out her secret. Spike was her friend, though, a friend who would never tell. That summer when Buffy was gone, he was probably her best friend. He pretty much admitted that she was the only reason he didn’t dust after Buffy jumped.

And then Buffy told him to stay away from her. Or she’d stake him. And even though it had to be more complicated than that, Dawn felt all the anger she placed on Spike shifting to her sister. She’d been so lonesome that winter, so freaking alone that a vengeance demon heard her pain. Because Buffy barred Spike from seeing her. If she’d had just one friend…

Logically, Dawn knew part of that loneliness was her fault, since she wasn’t allowed to see Janice after they snuck out on Halloween. But it didn’t keep her from slamming the bathroom door now and stomping to her room, a towel wrapped around her, angry on behalf of her poor, abandoned fifteen-year-old self.

She was still seething the next day, huffing and being obvious about rolling her eyes until Buffy finally put down her phone.

“Something you want to say?”

“Would it matter? You never want to talk about anything,” Dawn shot back. They were in the kitchen, making two separate lunches.

“Fine.” Buffy reached for her cell phone.

“No. Not fine. Maybe I want to talk about something. Maybe I need to.”

“Go on.” Buffy left the mobile on the table and crossed her arms.

“You’re never here. You don’t talk to me. The last time I was this alone, Halfrek dropped in to give me a wish.”

It was Buffy’s turn to roll her eyes. “I always ask if you want to come out with me, no matter where I’m going.”

“With your friends. It’s always your friends.”

She uncrossed her arms and threw her hands in the air. “Then make some of your own!”

“Even if I did, you’d just take them, too.”

“What?” Buffy made a confused gesture.

“Like you took Spike. He was my friend first.”

The Slayer’s shoulders tensed. “Spike’s gone, Dawn. It doesn’t –”

“You told me just this week that it wasn’t rape like I thought,” Dawn snapped. “I threatened him when he came back and never talked to him again, because I was on your side. I took your side because you’re my sister.”

Buffy went still and turned her face toward the staircase. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “I should have talked to you about it. That summer, or... I just… I didn’t know he’d even come back, had no clue what he went to do. And then it was –”

Dawn didn’t let her finish. “Oh, right. He got a soul. But that didn’t matter. It wasn’t like when Angel came back. No one forgave Spike for what he did without one.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Buffy started to say, but Dawn overrode her.

“Why, Buffy? Why is Spike the only one who had to atone? Xander tried to rape you, too, but that’s okay, he was possessed by a hyena or something. That never was a big deal.”

The Slayer stared at her, shocked. “How did you know that?”

“You’ve known for years that I read your diaries.” Dawn shook her head. “That’s not the point. You forgave him. We all forgave him for summoning that singing demon, the one who made all those people dance to death. You almost burned up dancing, and I was almost dragged to hell as his child-bride! We forgave Willow for trying to end the world. You forgave Angel for killing your teacher, for killing all those girls –”

“Stop!” Buffy eyes widened at her outburst. “Just… that’s enough.”

“No! Tell me! Why did it have to be my friend who was the unforgivable one?”

Buffy put her hands over her ears for a moment. “I can’t talk about this.” She grabbed up her phone, heading toward the door.

Dawn moved to block her, arms on her hips. “Well, too bad. Not this time, Buffy. You always run away and leave me, but not this time. I need to talk about it. Why didn’t you tell me, when it mattered?”

“You think I couldn’t forgive Spike?” Buffy spat. “I forgave him that same night. I saw his face, his eyes when he realized –” Her mouth shut with an audible snap. Buffy looked down, breathing hard. After a moment, she said in a low, taut voice, “It isn’t Spike I can’t forgive.”

She zigged around Dawn with Slayer speed and agility, already on the street before the door slammed behind her.

Spike was as sure as he could be that he had ‘Friggin in the Riggin’ conquered. It wasn’t as if he could check elsewhere for the lyrics, was it? So he moved on to the next song on his filthiest list, ‘Dinah, Dinah, Show Us Your Leg.’

“‘A rich girl has a limousine,’ he bellowed, “‘A poor girl has a truck/But the only ride that Dinah has/Is when she has a fuck.’” The last word trailed off.

The First hadn’t been back. Better things to do than torment a sorry sod like him, he was sure. Still, torment helped the time go by. Marked the time going by. He sighed. “‘Dinah, Dinah, show us your leg,’” he intoned in a whisper, “‘a yard above your knee.’”

Spike dropped supine onto the floor, then lifted his own legs. He willed a wall into existence just behind his bum and rested his legs against it, making an L-shape. He was too weary and worn to worry about Dinah just now. Might as well lay here and look up at the grey sky drift slowly past.

Nothing else to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Response to Elysian Fields' challenge https://dark-solace.org/elysian/modules/challenges/challenges.php?chalid=3309


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